So apparently breasts are back in fashion, according to a moronic article in the New York Post.
This is excellent news, since much like my arms, legs and head, I’ve been foolishly lugging my breasts around for years now without a thought as to whether or not they were popular. I didn’t even realise they had gone out of fashion. I thought they were body parts, not accessories.
That being said, for the past few years I have been noticing a distinct scarcity in clothing that caters for my cleavage, so maybe that’s what they mean. Dress shopping – something I’ve had to take part in recently – is an actual nightmare. Brand name dresses were clearly designed with twelve-year old boys’ figures in mind. High street fashion requires me to breathe out and then never breathe in again, otherwise seams are in serious danger of popping. Urban Outfitters in particular seems to cater exclusively for girls with slim figures and breasts the size of mandarins. I know this because I tried on about five dresses there and each of them had a band of fabric fitted in the chest area – presumably for my chest – that was so narrow it covered only the middle, leaving not only underboob but also overboob, which is not a good look for anybody, ever.
Dresses that look demure on other people look indecent on me. Dresses that look slinky on other people are downright unwearable.
Did I mention I hate shopping for dresses?
And it’s not just dresses.
Backless or sheer “tops”, strappy anything with long armholes, bralettes that might as well be stitched together from scraps of tissue paper… the past year has not been kind to anyone with more than a B cup. So maybe some people out there did have a vendetta against large breasts and I just attributed to stupidity what I should have attributed to malice.
My own feelings on my breasts are… mixed.
My mother is not well-endowed, and has always equated my generous cup size with being overweight. Growing up, dressing me was all about minimising them. Anything that made them look smaller or hid them was considered attractive. Anything that emphasized my curves provoked the same reaction I imagine I would have elicited with a casual bit of public nudity. On a Sunday. In a church.
The body-shaming was real in my house.
Anything with even the slightest hint of visible cleavage made me look “fat” and “attention-seeking.” Actual cleavage was “pornographic” and “desperate.” For a long, long time I internalised all this claptrap, nestling it down deep next to a tiny seed of confidence that had yet to sprout.
Today, not only am I more confident in myself, but I also just care more about my own comfort than I care about others’ opinions. I still hear that insidious voice when I wear clothes that expose the indecent fact that I (clutch your rosary beads) have breasts – a slowly-but-surely withering part of me feels uncomfortable and fat and desperate and gross in a way that I know isn’t necessarily rooted in reality – but now I just shut it up with black eyeliner and high heels.
Which is all to say that I for one welcome this fabled return of breasts.
Not that they ever left.